


Burgundy

by AutoResponder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, Everyone Has Issues, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, The AC is broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutoResponder/pseuds/AutoResponder
Summary: Jesus Christ.Nice.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dave Strider
Kudos: 38





	Burgundy

**Author's Note:**

> to clarify before you begin: Bro's name is Dirk in this. i guess if you don't like Dirk being used as Bro's name in fics you can, idk, put it into a google doc and change all the Dirks to Bros. 
> 
> i originally wrote this as a BroDave fic. but i like guardiancest equally as much, so feel free to interpret it as whichever one you wish.
> 
> i also wrote [Maroon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974388)

Sometimes, on days where Dave can see particles of dust reflecting light through the blinds of his room, floating in old stagnant air, _he_ stands in the doorway. Leather gloves crinkling under his grip as his hands tighten around the muscle of his arms, damp with just the thinnest layer of moisture from consequence of standing in the heat trapped inside their tiny, unkempt apartment. One of them had mentioned getting the air conditioner fixed months ago. Dave can’t remember who. He’s not even sure if the blood rushing up his neck is a result from sitting smack in the middle of Satan’s globe huggers, or an inclination buried under existential amounts of denial for an inkling he absolutely should be _ignoring_.

Last time, Dave had said it would be the final go. And the time before that. _And the time before that._

“You busy?”

His voice is gruff, the subtlest hint of tentative where he knows he shouldn’t be here, because Dave had told him to cut this shit. Personally asked Dirk to pass the room temperature stick of farm handled churn so he could scrape it with a dirtied butter knife and evict said Country Crock to pits of acid death. And yet here he was, lowkey pestering in the way he does that Dave knows too well despite the lack of words, the absence of tone, the blank stare he receives from behind those stupid triangle shades that sit on his brother’s face to conceal a perpetually inscrutable expression.

The old conference chair (repurposed for something slightly resembling a classification for convenient seating) creaks beneath Dave’s weight as he shifts, reaching across the desk to grasp at a long discarded ditto from class and laying it out in front of himself. 

“Yeah. Got some work to do, y’know. Gettin’ my straight A’s and all that, workin’ my brain up the academic echelon. My professor would be proud to hear, I’ve been on a fuckin’ kick lately with turnin’ my papers in. It’s a miracle, you know.” That same hand stretches out, fingers catching on the edge of a pen by his keyboard. He quickly takes hold of it. This ditto no longer stands a chance against Dave’s rapidly growing urgency to desecrate it with incorrect answers he barely pays half a mind to, carelessly skimming each equation while jotting down numbers he pulls from beside the hyperion evergreen wedged far up his fucking asshole.

“She asked if anything changed at home to start making me a productive addition to the environment,” he mentions blandly, resisting the pull on desires shoved deep down in the belly of his regression, blemished with invisible scars from puberty. Which Dave holds face down, desperately, praying that it stops kicking soon as he smothers it into a pillow with all the force he can muster. 

Dirk remains speechless. The change in atmosphere is palpable, and for a short moment Dave feels like he’s going to choke. 

“I said it was nothing. Summer seminars just got smaller classes, makes it easier to focus,” he adds instead, speaking passed the lump building in his throat. The silence continues.

Not only does it continue, but the silence buys out an acre of land and files a construction contract to start building some prime real estate on its now legal property, inviting Dave to a celebrity housewarming party starring big names like _Unpleasant_ and _Anxiety_. Except the houses are so fucking compact and claustrophobic that it feels like everything is closing in around the space within, trapping him between the foundation mercilessly.

It’s dark and painful and the walls have eyes, boring into Dave’s skull from every direction until sclera is dripping over his shoulders and when he finally gives in to lift his head and stare into the entryway, the only remnants of Dirk is a door left half open.

* * *

* * *

Hours pass before Dave decides to leave the safety of his room at the urging of his body to _please_ drink some fluids before it goes Bear Grylls in the fucking corner. Halitosis thy name is Dave, and it sticks to the roof of his mouth, tongue holding roughly the same consistency as steel fucking wool. He avoids colliding with the hallway hamper by swerving around it, clothing surplus spilling over its sides. The lid’s been flipped up for optimal dirty laundry deposition, and although he ponders discarding his shirt, he ultimately decides against it. Not today.

First priority is to get something to quench his thirst and refuel his brain, after he’d spent hours struggling to actually get his work done once he had looked it over and chosen that maybe contributing more to his education would have been beneficial so Dave wouldn’t be stuck wasting all the financial aid he gets for college. Again. And hey, if all else failed, there was always the circus. Those leotards didn’t look half bad. Dave’s about 80% positive that he could pull off the whole spandex and eternal wedgie combo as long as no random objects strayed off the path from a clown’s juggling routine and threatened to permanently handicap his peach colored yogurt flinger.

The kitchen isn’t as cool as Dave had been hoping it’d be when he arrives, but he’s not ready to voice his complaints knowing that Dirk is currently sprawled out on the futon watching something he probably couldn’t care less about to pass the time, distract himself from earlier's humiliating rejection that Dave definitely isn’t thinking about or trying to push into the far recessions of his skull while he crosses the room. 

Tile sticks to the bottom of his feet as he walks, and it only sounds _slightly_ like someone spilled syrup across the floor and left it to a sugary demise.

Which now plagues all passerby’s earholes as they attempt a lugubrious trek towards the refrigerator, sanctuary so close yet so far.

“Don’t leave the door open too long.”

Dirk’s voice is so sudden it nearly jerks Dave out of his lethargic trance, but fortunately the reins on his shit are wrapped so tight he expertly forces his shit to stay right where it is, satisfyingly unflipped and in places Dave can easily find.

“I know.” He can hear the conversation playing back in his head. _Don’t leave the fridge open, it’s a waste of electricity, you’ll let all the cold air out, you’ll cut your toe off with a sword and I’m not taking you to the hospital so feel free to stitch it back on yourself. Blah blah blah…_

That doesn’t make the meager gust of cold air that hits Dave’s face any less enjoyable when he swipes a bottle of water from the shelf, avoiding aforementioned cheapass swords from tumbling out. His toes, spectacularly, still intact.

Condensation drips down the bottle and over Dave’s fingers when he gently squeezes it, plastic bending beneath the pressure as he uncaps the lid and lifts the drink. 

Delightfully chilled, refreshing water fills his mouth and cools his throat. He tips his head back and swallows sweet respite, breath held, easily downing at least half of the bottles contents and letting it provide a temporary relief to the onslaught of fucking desert air around him. Dave pulls back with a sigh, contemplating whether getting his shorts wet would be worth dumping the rest of the liquid over his body. It’s tempting...

But a misuse of perfectly good drinking water.

When Dirk’s familiar, sturdy presence fills Dave’s space (stealthily), it’s expected. He’s already offering the bottle, and Dirk doesn’t miss a beat, taking hold of it with an intimate kind of gentleness that sets a fire ablaze in Dave’s chest. He finds himself turning to scrutinize Dirk’s posture and mannerisms, weakly. He shouldn’t stare at Dirk’s lips as they purse and catch the tip of the bottle against them, or lick his own with absence of thought (morals). Shouldn’t feel a twist in his guts, or remember just how soft-

Dave turns away, which is the exact moment Dirk chooses he’s had enough to drink, quietly setting the container down onto the countertop. It’s an easy stretch for him to make, with long, toned arms exposed by the thin beater he’s replaced his usual shirt with.

Then he ruins the mood by opening his mouth. 

“You free now?” Dirk’s drawl is loosely annunciated, obvious to tell he’s anxious, perhaps impatient, and suddenly the idea of Dirk lying down for the passed bullshit amount of hours alone, not touching himself, waiting for Dave with some sliver of hope that his younger brother would eventually concede and turn the other cheek for him… sends a malicious, greedy sensation through Dave’s faculties.

Dirk is a man who takes things. He sees what he likes, and he takes it. Their operations are complicated, calculated, and constantly filled with monotone banter that Dave progresses as if he’s poking a bear until that bear wakes up and slams him down against the nearest available surface and fucks him stupid.

Somehow, while he’d been so focused writing an entire dissertation on _“this has to be the final time, I mean it”_ , Dave had been slipped an envelope listing responsibilities and power between its folds, biding its time, the interest of his dominant bill rising each passing day where a hand was waved in dismissal of an advance he promised himself he wouldn’t be apart of again. For his own sake. For Dirk’s sake.

That bitter taste returns, hidden in his reply. “Maybe.”

A finger twitches by Dirk’s side.

“Maybe,” he echoes, his form of clarification rather than outright asking exactly what Dave means by _maybe_.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Dave shrugs with all the essence of nonchalant he can scrounge up, shades blocking out the ray of sun that beams in through the kitchen window, sitting above skyscrapers in the distance. It’s so _fucking_ hot. “I’m a busy guy. Got a long evening of internet browsing to do, mayhaps crack open that book assignment I’m supposed to be working on. You think you’re the only thing vying for my attention right now? I’ve got a Jenga tower built outta statures and you’re tryin’ to yank one a’ my supporting blocks straight out from under the whole damn foundation.”

The proceeding quiet makes Dave feel like he personally punched Father Time in his bearded mug after the guy was generous enough to offer Dave hospice from a death sentence. Talk about an ungrateful response. Dave’s pretty sure if he tried hard enough he could balance on one leg and shove his foot directly into his own mouth without using his hands. 

It’ll be his opening act for that pre-established circus gig he’ll inevitably have to join once he’s done publicly humiliating himself in and outside of the apartment. He’ll never be able to show his face again without Boo Boo The fucking Fool’s tears permanently tattooed onto his skin. Just above the smile some chucklefuck will paint over his claptrap and turn Dave into the poster child for Greek tragedies.

Arms lift and cross over muscles that Dave knows are firm yet soft to the touch, with a heart that beats strong and proudly underneath. Pride that has, apparently, been steadily forfeited at a pace Dave hadn’t realized was meticulously, slowly intended until just seconds prior.

“When _will_ you be free?”

The fact that Dirk isn’t winding a fist back to knock Dave’s teeth out is a miracle in and of itself. The fact that Dave can _say what he wants_ without Dirk strangling his scrawny neck between his hands is, again, a Goddamn fucking _miracle_.

No twenty year old should be allowed to have this much power over a thirty-five year old man.

“I dunno. Like I said, I’m a busy guy, yeah?” 

Dirk’s lips pinch, slanting, and it does nothing to quell the hungry beast residing in the deep trenches within Dave’s sternum.

“Later?”

“I’ve got class in the morning.” 

He can sense his brother’s indignation brewing, a hot cauldron of imbalance bubbling over the edges and tinting red flames blue. Dave stirs that awful mixture with a ladle; breathes it, drinks it, lives off the concoction of mistake they’ve tenderly fucked up over the years. 

”If you’re good, I might consider penciling you in for a private meeting tomorrow when I get home,” he says, snatching the near-empty water bottle from the counter.

He absconds from the kitchen without giving Dirk a chance to retaliate. But Dirk hardly makes the effort to anyway.

* * *

* * *

Dave treks through an intangible force field of sludge on his way home from class; sun beating down on his body, flushed, sweat sticking to his forehead from the base of his fringe. He delivers an eviction notice to the moisture there with the back of a hand, only to have a new group of squatters move in seconds later. His aviator’s provide little protection from the searing white on the horizon, angled at an exact angle of Fuck You. 

The apartment is hotter than it is outside. A fume of heat greets Dave when he opens the door, stepping into an oven set to a moderate 350 fucking degrees Fahrenheit, for a succulent roast that’s bound to be dry once it’s finished slow cooking.

His sneakers find themselves haphazardly flung against a shoe rack stuffed with smuppets wearing Build-A-Bear booties, and soon his shirt finds its own spot on the floor along with his jeans, leaving Dave in nothing but boxer shorts. Red, because he needs to make sure his stupid annoying dumb idiot big fucking bro doesn’t fucking annex his underwear on laundry day, and God forbid he ever asks to borrow something in return without Dirk lecturing him for thirty minutes on why Dave should sow his name into the seam of his waistband if he really didn’t want anyone else wearing his delicates. Clearly, if Dave doesn’t mark it, then it’s not his. Perfect fucking logic.

He still left a bite mark on Dirk’s shoulder bad enough to last a week and a half after hearing that.

Who happens to be in the kitchen when Dave heads further into their muggy apartment, leaning over the counter with a rocket pop freshly unwrapped in his hand. Seems like he followed a similar train of thought, lounging shirtless. He greets Dave with a blink, shades gone from his face, a sight that isn’t foreign but still takes Dave’s breath away when he’s permitted to gaze at Dirk's unobstructed features. His skin’s speckled with light brown in patterns that Dave could find constellations in, which resides below soft, sun-colored hues that piece all his features together. Young, soft, and handsome. The kind that makes a man feel like he’s helpless, drawn into their gravitational pull, tempting him to become a part of a solar system.

Anyway wow, enough of that, right? Holy shit he's getting side tracked.

“Hey.” Dave’s heading to the opposite side of the counter in an instant, folding his arms atop the surface to support his weight, head tipped up in request and tilted to the side.

“Hey,” he greets back, free hand reaching to pluck the sunglasses off Dave without any further prompting, placing them beside a blue stained wrapper. Next he offers the popsicle, and Dave takes it, pressing the ice to his lips and sighing through his nose at the refreshing contrast to the heat around them. “Learn anything useful?”

“Nah.” Dave shrugs his shoulders cooly, taking an undeserved lap of the rocket pop. Twice, actually, then extends the tip to Dirk, waiting for him to take his share. And he does, in either a purposeful display or not at all, in which Dave might be wearing salacity goggles and all he can see is how Dirk’s mouth wraps delicately around the pop, tongue jutting out the slightest bit against the frozen treat, his pale lashes hooding eyes that Dave pitifully gets lost in. Still so bright, so gorgeous, made even more beautiful with how the warm glow of light behind him catches every strand of stray hair around his head and halos his healthy physique.

Dave doesn’t think his heart could beat any faster.

He’s thankful for the weather, only because it gives him a chance to blame the burning in his cheeks on how ass degrees out it is.

Dirk leans back, wiping the corner of his mouth on a thumb, letting the stillness in the air between them sit too comfortably while Dave returns the popsicle to himself and scrapes red from the top, letting a sizeable chunk of ice fall into his mouth when he bites down into it. It earns him a twitch from Dirk, but nothing more as Dave extends the rocket pop once again.

“You been good today?” Dave’s not even sure himself what entices the question, the way he asks it, but Dirk seems unnerved as well, fingers curling against his cheek where he has a palm propped along his chin for support.

The atmosphere turns thick, like a wall between them that Dirk instinctively puts up- frame tense, vision pointedly aimed towards Dave’s nose rather than his own abnormally colored peepers. He gives Dirk something to look at, wiggling the popsicle stick in front of him and ignoring the drop of purple that plops onto the counter. “Gonna have to cancel our private meeting, unless you’ve-”

“I’ve been good,” Dirk cuts in, and Dave is privately taken aback by the quickness of his answer, urgency giving way to true desires attempting to hide using Dirk’s flattened drawl for cover.

“Yeah?” Dave’s fucking amazed his voice doesn’t crack, visibly observing Dirk, letting his gaze sweep over his bro unabashed, as condescending as he can. Which gets him the anticipated reaction he’s been waiting for, _which is_ Dirk drawing away, masking his shyness in a hunch that has his arm covering his chest and a palm nestled by his nape. Cute. “Think you can prove it to me? I’ve got some ideas in mind, if you’re down to try ‘em out. I checked it out on Reddit, s’posed to be real kinky.”

Dirk’s eyebrow twitches, an obvious insult caught in his throat in the form of a soft grunt bitten back. “What kind of shit? I’m not humiliatin’ myself.”

Holy shit he agreed. “Stepping.”

“I don’t want your filthy fuckin’ feet on my dick.”

“What if you kept your pants on?”

“Footjobs ain’t my thing.”

“It’s not a footjob, it’s grinding. Don’t you wanna be good for me, bro?”

He damn near flinches at Dave’s question, innocently poised, the flicker of fire in his eyes simmering down to a quiet crackle. His arms drop to his sides, standing straight, and that’s Dave’s cue to come walking around the counter to meet Dirk on the other end, finally removing unnecessary obstacles blocking the nice view that’s been waiting for him on this side. 

That view being, Dirk in a pair of his loose fitting jeans, the kind that sag just enough and hang low on his hips so Dave can see the elastic waistband of Dirk’s boxers, V shaped muscles disappearing passed it. It takes all of his willpower not to drop to his knees right there and yank Dirk’s pants down.

A voice pricks the back of Dave’s brain like a fingernail, itching, whispering to him muddled messages that his subconscious has no choice but to pass along to other thought processes like some messed up game of telephone. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn’t be _thinking_ about doing this. He was doing so well, putting up boundaries and telling Dirk no and creating a respectable distance between the two of them, working on separating their familial relationship from… whatever it is they have now.

The thing that’s weaved itself permanently between their kinship and their stupid libidos. Dave just can’t help it. And Dirk is offering him the opportunity of a lifetime, the opportunity to see him vulnerable, to take control, to really let Dirk know whether he wants to do this or not. And, maybe just a little something else. Something that sounds like Dirk might depend on Dave and vye for his affection a lot more than he scarcely lets on.

“Can’t I do something else?” Dirk frowns now, a subtle downturn of his lips, tugging at Dave’s heartstrings in their descent.

Fuck.

As much as he’s reveling in this power trip, the last thing Dave wants is to make Dirk uncomfortable. “You really don’t like it that much?” 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t milk some more words out of him.

Dirk’s nostrils flare, briefly, before he returns to a marginally stoic facade. “No.”

Dave lowers the now melting popsicle onto the countertop, a mess he’ll clean another time when he’s not pouring every drop of his attention and focus into Dirk, timid and pretty in the way only Dave can see him. Private, personal, reserved - just for Dave. 

“Get on your knees then.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, salt mingling with the candied flavor still on his tastebuds. There’s a moment where Dirk stares at Dave, at his chest, and then his gaze drops to Dave’s waist before he’s kneeling at eye level with striped shorts. Dave notes on an imaginary bulletin list that Dirk looks exceptionally good from this angle.

Fingers stretch and thread themselves through Dirk’s bangs, pushing back his hair. Sun shines off it, sparkling against sweat beading at his temples. Dave steps closer, Dirk’s hands reflexively reaching for his waist to pull him in further, breath hot and ghosting over Dave’s waistline. A squeeze in Dirk’s golden tresses is all he needs for confirmation, wet lips pressing flush against Dave’s skin and mouthing softly down his navel, gliding over it smoothly.

Dirk’s mouth is impossibly hot, trailing scorching paths across Dave’s bare skin, ready to steam and choke his lungs with smoke - burning, tempting, marking territory in fiery kisses that sink low into his groin. The countertop jabs into the small of Dave’s back when he’s pushed towards it, willingly, letting Dirk have a better vantage point while Dave’s free hand finds purchase along the edge. “Ah…”

Every feathery light brush against sensitive flesh has Dave’s hips canting, urging Dirk to continue, soft sounds hitching in the back of his throat when those ministrations travel southwards, Dirk’s hands smoothing over Dave’s thighs and gripping firmly, fingertips dipping underneath the hem of his shorts.

“Mmn-shit-” Curses slip from him in quiet gasps, arousal standing eagerly towards the heated moisture massaging along its length through thin, dampening fabric.

“Dave,” Dirk murmurs, voice low, sending vibrations through Dave’s dick that merge into chills that run up his spine. He shudders, sweat rolling down the side of his face, delightful haze mingling with the feverish temperature rising within his body. Dirk’s hands wander further up, slipping round to grope and knead greedily into the back of Dave's thighs. 

“ _Dave,_ ” he says again, this time seeking attention, and by God is Dave _more_ than happy to give him it.

“ _‘_ Sup?” He blinks lazily, admiring Dirk’s features from the perspective he’s been granted, concentrating on pink dusted under pale brown freckles.

Orange eyes watch Dave intently, like they know they have him wrapped around their intangible, meager little digits. “Can we fuck?”

Dave can’t hide how his cock twitches in response, encouraging Dirk to jut his tongue out and drag the broad of it against his hard length. “Dirk-”

“Please,” he interrupts, gaze still locked on Dave’s; sultry and dove-like in the way it is exclusively during these moments. “I wanna fuck. Come on.” 

This is as close to begging that his brother’s ever gotten and Dave’s not sure if he should enjoy or fear the way it makes his stomach flip seven kinds of gold medal winning acrobatics. 

Instead of opening _that_ Pandora’s Box of dangerous kinks, he pets Dirk’s bangs back, slick and easy to dishevel. Muss up his meticulously crafted persona into something Dave can look at with pure self-satisfaction. “Y’really want it that much? I don’t think I believe you. Maybe you could make your argument sound a lil’ more convincing, bro. Jury’s still out on if your testimony can be reliable.”

The face Dirk makes has Dave feeling, probably, maybe, a little guilty. But Dirk still isn’t telling him to fuck off or anything similar. In fact, he even tips his head down, nuzzling into the crook of Dave’s inner thigh. 

“ _Please_ , Dave,” he repeats, lighting fires in Dave's belly.

Jesus Christ. 

_Nice_.

“Get yourself ready, then.”

Dave’s eyes meet Dirk’s like before, blazing, sparking explosions between their miniscule expressions.

“Excuse me?” He sounds pissed. Or confused. Either one, really.

“You heard me. Get yourself ready.”

Are Dave’s knees shaking? No. But his nerves are fucking buzzing and he can feel trembles running down his legs anyway, staring challengingly and daring to push Dirk with his words further than he should even think about having the audacity to-

“How.”

Dave _physically_ feels every capillary in his lungs slam shut.

He's been given an option. An honest to God fucking option, no further questions asked, and Dave takes that offer and decides he's going to run a triathlon with it. A three part program requiring extreme physical fitness – a true fucking test of character, that Dave has been steadfastly failing today. 

“Touch yourself. Make sure your dick’s hard enough first,” he instructs, fingers curling into Dirk's flaxen tresses, tight, possessive. It doesn't appear to be unwanted, and those large hands are sliding down Dave's thighs, moist from the heat and sending electric currents through his veins. “You got anything on you?”

Dirk stills, hesitating. Then he seems to remember something, giving a quick jerking motion with his head towards the counter. “Medicine drawer.”

It's not really a medicine drawer. They use it to shove miscellaneous shit into that they're too lazy to keep in the bathroom. Vaseline, ointments, tweezers. There's also Aspirin and acetaminophen, lubricant, bandages, ibuprofen… All messily arranged and tossed in without care. Dave finagles the drawer open with a pinky, then gropes around inside, eyes trained on Dirk...

On his _hands,_ sinking to his own waist to undo his fly, thumbs skirting his waistband slowly as if he's putting on a small show for Dave. He can feel the gaze on him, knowing, as he straightens up and presses downwards. Inching his jeans down his thighs alongside his boxers, blond tuft revealed first, then the half-hard, thick erection that rests over the gray band of his underwear. 

A packet finds itself under Dave's fingers as he stares and swallows dryly, then hoists himself onto the countertop to sit. Dirk stands next, jeans settling around his knees as he watches Dave with a crushing sort of intensity. 

“Hands off,” Dave states as he wedges himself out of his own underwear, exiling it to the kitchen floor. His heels meet the ledge of the counter next, resting comfortably. “Eyes only. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” he answers, grunting his response. And then Dirk’s fingers are curling around his shaft, squeezing faintly, concentrated on the space between Dave’s legs.

God. Dave feels air struggle to circulate through him as he tears the packet by a corner, small, so he can drizzle only what he needs onto his fingers, then sets the lubricant down. He leans back on his clean hand, assuring himself that the view is good enough for Dirk before his fingers travel southwards, palm smoothing slowly down his waist, his thighs, over the curve of his ass. 

He sucks in a breath, relaxing and circling his rim with two slicked up fingers, watching Dirk’s tongue dart out to lick the corner of his pressed lips. Good. Fuck- That’s what Dave wants. Attention entirely fixated on him. On his fingers as they prod softly against the ring of muscle, teasing, showing Dirk how tight Dave’s skin is and the way it twitches eagerly beneath his touch, the lubricant allowing his digits to slide smoothly over it.

One finger, first, slipping inside slowly and massaging his inner walls as Dave sighs, stomach feeling warm. He lowers his gaze as he works himself, Dirk’s palm gliding along his dick as it hardens to nearly full length. He tips forward, empty hand hovering over Dave’s hip-

“No touching.”

Dirk’s eyebrow twitches, subtle frustration, but he swerves from the path regardless and settles that vagabond beside Dave’s hip on the counter instead. Still stroking himself, never daring to break away from the show Dave is so generously putting on. Dave can’t help thinking that Dirk should know his place. But he tries not to let it inflame his ego too much. 

“Good boy,” Dave rewards him, earning another shift of Dirk’s eyebrow, this time something different hidden in the nonverbal reaction. A second finger joins the other, and Dave moans quietly, reflexively squeezing tight as he stretches to accommodate the change. His mouth parts just the slightest so he can pant slowly, Dirk’s own movements falling into rhythm with each drawn out thrust of Dave’s hand and careful separation of his ring and middle fingers to help get himself used to widening. 

“D’you like it?” he asks, a drop of cream colored fluid rolling down the tip of Dirk’s cock and vanishing under his palm as he strokes his length more firmly.

It takes a moment, silent save for the wet noise of Dave pumping into his soon-to-be entrance and the undertone of friction growing on skin. But Dave is patient. He can keep waiting, keep teasing, observe the opening of Dirk’s mouth as Dave tries to get a third finger inside, those gorgeous cheeks tinting red as if the blush were airbrushed onto his features. 

He’s so fucking pretty and Dave wants to watch him cry. “Dirk?”

“Yeah,” he groans out, lids drooping and breathing audible. “S’real good, Dave.”

Excellent. Satisfaction tumbles from Dave’s voice as he moans, switching to move in circular motions and feeling like he’s got front row seats to the best picture of the summer with how hazy Dirk’s expression is. How he looks like he can’t stop imagining himself in place of Dave’s fingers, hips rolling into the motions of his hand and muted stutters stuck on the tip of his tongue.

Those stutters are what push Dave to speak again, to take it further and insinuate the next step. 

“You want it?” Dave taunts, tone reading almost innocently. The situation is anything but. He draws his hand away finally and uses his thumb to spread his skin to the side, to let Dirk get a better look at his flesh, flushed and wet and ready for him- Dammit, Dave’s hot just considering it. “You wanna be here instead, Dirk? Thinkin’ ‘bout how good I’d feel?” 

Dirk steps between Dave’s knees, inching closer, his head hung low. 

”Yes,” he whispers under his breath, still not touching. Dave’s pleased to see him following instructions so nicely. So obediently.

“Ask,” he states. Waiting again, just as before, reaching with one foot to drag a heel over Dirk’s waistline.

Silence surrounds them once more as Dirk hesitates, and Dave can see the want just faintly on his face, the need, shadows cast beneath his bangs where they've fallen out of place and stuck to the sweat on his forehead. Dave's own erection pulses at the picture in front of him - Dirk's flushed cheeks that redden the tips of his ears, thick member out on display for Dave to watch when he isn't hypnotized by how beads of moisture roll down his bro's bare chest. 

Dave raises the back of his arm to his own forehead, wiping away the perspiration gathered under his fringe and around his temples. 

“I guess you don't really want me then,” he comments, and Dirk's brow _creases_ with Dave's words. It gets Dave to chuckle, low and even domineering. 

“I do,” Dirk defends, tone stiff though his hand has yet to still.

“Then _ask_ ,” Dave emphasises, sweet as sugar. Who knows when he's gonna be given another chance like this, or if he'd even have the balls to take it.

The humiliation on Dirk's face is clear as the fucking sun beaming into their crappy kitchen.

If he didn't want this, he wouldn't agree to it.

“Dave,” Dirk starts, low and gruff. If he didn't want this, he'd take it. The thought that he could from here, like this, sends Dave's heart slamming into his rib cage to be smashed into fine dust. Another time, maybe. “Please, I want it.”

…

“How bad?” Dave's a pisser. 

But Dirk practically _whines_ , frustrated and throbbing by the way Dave can see clear precum overflowing from his tip, cock twitching noticeably in his firm grip. 

“ _Bad_ ,” he winces, with just the exact level of desperation Dave's been searching for. 

An acceptable answer. Dave finally leans back, propped up on his elbows and legs spread appropriately before he relinquishes the remainder of their lubricant to spread sloppily over Dirk's erection while he strokes himself a few more times.

The closer Dirk inches towards Dave, the louder he can hear the voice in his head - it grabs a clipboard with a stack of papers as thick as his arm clamped down to it, and a pen that clicks insistently, serving only to distract Dave further from the moment. His conscience is an iron pressed suit with polished shoes, and Dave’s own rattiest pair of kicks are perched on the arm of a fainting couch. 

_Mister Strider,_ it says, because his conscience has a verbal PhD in sassinomics. _Since you've so willingly placed yourself in the hot seat, let's further examine your pathological brother-fucking tendencies and what this means to you on a physcological level._

No thanks, he says. Therapy is fake and all he gives a shit about right now is the head of Dirk's cock at his rim pressing forward and into Dave, successfully drawing him from his labyrinth of over analytical thoughts.

He could tell Dirk to be careful, annoy him with it as if he doesn't know what he's doing. But he doesn’t; instead he inhales sharply and tenses when Dirk finally enters him with an _at last_ noise of appreciation. And that’s about all Dave can take before his perseverance wears out. 

“Touch me,” he concedes, short and breathless, sliding an inch off the counter when Dirk grasps his hips hard enough they’ll fuckin’ bruise later and uses the leverage to rock his dick inside Dave’s tight heat.

Though, _tight_ is a fucking understatement. There’s no way he prepped enough for Dirk, and he can feel it in the burn down there when Dirk teases his shaft further into Dave with shallow, gentle thrusts. He hisses, toes curling, and he knows Dirk could absolutely take advantage of the moment. Really make Dave pay for being such a petulant little shit throughout this whole ordeal. Rather than do that, Dirk takes his time and waits until there’s enough give to push himself deeper, when Dave’s body isn’t resisting the motions as much and opens up to him alongside tiny, barely there moans that slip passed Dave's lips.

It tingles in Dave’s guts, grossly. 

“You’re being too soft,” he blurts, gripping the edge of the counter and settling the pads of his feet on Dirk’s waist. “I thought you wanted to fuck me? You ain’t get to do it like you’ve got any dignity left, after makin’ me wait so long.”

It’s hypocritical, and somehow stated without a hint of bitterness to it.

Dirk’s fingers squeeze Dave’s hips tighter, eliciting a different sort of reaction from him that entirely contradicts whatever qualms Dirk had earlier about being humiliated. Dave licks his lip, then gasps when Dirk presses forward eagerly.

That’s better.

He rolls his hips and grinds until he’s seated himself fully inside, shuddering for a time that Dave deems an opportunity to keep talking. 

“Feel good, bro? B-Bein’ all the way inside your baby brother?” Dave coos, nearly mocking, and all it earns him is a sort of ashamed little dip of Dirk’s posture when he leans forward to press his forehead to Dave’s shoulder. _Yes._ Dave feels him nod, hips rocking against his own. 

“Good boy,” he praises quickly, but lifts a hand to place over Dirk’s throat and push him back. Just so Dave can see his face, in a rare moment of weakness that he’ll probably never get to witness again for the next 62 fucking years.

It’s worth it. Getting to see the uncharacteristic way Dirk’s eyebrows knit together where they meet, furrowed, eyes glistening and lips parted so he can pant quietly. He loves being told what to do and when to do it and fuck if Dave isn’t going to take first place in this marathon. He burns the image of Dirk into his cornea. 

“Keep going,” he orders, the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk.

Dirk doesn’t disappoint. He works his way up to a steady beat, driving nice and deep into Dave while pulling him into every thrust. 

“F-Fuck, Dave-” His voice catches in his chest and Dave’s own dick fucking leaps at the sound of it.

“Faster,” Dave manages, breaths heavy and moans sweet enough to give cavities. Dirk’s fingers are going to leave _grooves_ in his hips and that just makes it even better. “Don’t st-stop unless I tell you to.”

“O-Okay. _Okay._ ” Dirk picks up the pace, pressing into the way Dave’s walls hug his cock and their heat invites him to bury himself to the hilt each time. Dave keens and arches his back under all of it, knees spread as wide as he can bare to make them while hooked over Dirk’s arms. 

Those strong, firm arms that lift and move Dave effortlessly. Forcing him onto Dirk’s dick so he can fuck him just the way Dave likes best. Heavy thrusts that he’ll be feeling for Goddamn days. Dave tilts his hips and lets Dirk hit him in _just_ the right spot that has him seeing stars, pathetic, pleasured squeals tumbling out of his mouth each time the head of Dirk’s length gets well acquainted with that bundle of nerves that feel the best.

He doesn’t stop, as promised, leaning into Dave’s hand as it comes around and braces against his neck for support. Daring him to wrap around it, as if he couldn’t, as if Dave’s not going to fucking reach up with both of his mitts and get a vice grip around Dirk’s throat at the mere instant of a wordless request.

Dirk’s eyes flutter, hips stuttering as he sinks into Dave, deliciously submissive sounds dripping off his tongue.

So of course Dave grasps harder, thumbs folded nicely over his windpipe, and Dirk _moans_ through it like a fucking whore. 

“G-God, you _would_ be into this, wouldn’t you. Lookit all the e-extra effort I have to go through just to deal with you,” he breathes, relishing in how it makes Dirk drag Dave along his lap, shoving forward with more force-

He blinks, bleary but still able to read Dirk’s lips as he mouths Dave’s name silently, too blissed to even speak and holy fuck that’s sexy. Dave’s abdomen twists and twists and _keeps twisting_ and he’s close so so close. He’s gonna bruise Dirk’s neck by the time they’re done and just for this brief pause he lets himself lose a smidgen of composure so he can tip his head down and- and- 

“Mmn _fuck!_ ” Dave cries out, gasping wetly, encouraging Dirk to give more more more until he’s- “ _Dirk-_ ”

His muscles constrict, too taut too tight but so so good, sparks dancing behind his eyelids as he comes in short bursts of involuntary spasms, decorating his stomach in streaks of white. It feels like an eon before he’s done and Dave can’t tell if he’s got anything left to give but he knows for sure that he’s over-sensitive and he can definitely feel Dirk throbbing through stammers of his movements.

“A-Are you- Are you close?” He manages to ask after swallowing thickly, to which Dirk whines quietly and nods confirmation, picking up pace again and working himself using Dave’s post-orgasm.

It’s the right dash of pathetic and Dave’s fucking living for it. 

“I can’t believe- you’re gonna get off to fuckin’ your lil’ bro. That’s so messed up,” Dave goads him on, tenderly reminding Dirk about the hands around his neck. “You gonna come inside me? Gonna mark me up like you fuckin’ own me? Make sure everybody knows how fucked up you are. How much you wanna bend your little brother over the kitchen counter and stick your dick in him.”

Dirk screws his eyes shut, wheezing beneath Dave’s grip, so he lets up just enough to permit Dirk to get a quick breath of fresh air and a chance to groan heartily before he resumes crushing his throat once more.

“Well? C’mon bro, don't make me wait.” Dave asks, nudging his hips up. “ _Do it._ Come in me. Fill me up an’ make a bigger mess outta yourself.”

And that's that. Dirk moans mutedly, slotting between Dave's thighs until they're flush against each other's skin. A flash of warmth fills Dave, coating his walls until everything is too slick, too easy. Dirk doesn't pull out, opting to apparently crumple on top of Dave after he's allowed to breathe, once there aren't any offending paws cutting off the circulation to his brain.

Dave doesn't speak. Neither does Dirk.

The mistake of the evening drips quietly on to the kitchen tile once Dirk's softening member slips out, sticky between their bodies and the summer air doing nothing to help cool Dave off. Granted, Dirk's heavy, humid weight over him does absolutely jack shit to make it better.

… But he doesn't boot him off. It's unbearably quiet, and Dave's not sure if maybe he overdid it or if Dirk's recuperating or…

He waits another minute. Two minutes. Dave stirs at last, turning to gently nudge Dirk in silent question but receiving nothing but a glance from tired, damp eyes.

Shit. Dave moves to run his fingers through Dirk's hair then, without waiting to see if it's welcome. Somehow he knows it is, and he brushes Dirk's (yucky) bangs out of the way, kindly as he can possibly fathom. It earns him a snort. 

“What're you doing?” Dirk grunts, slapping Dave's wrist away, though halfheartedly. It's clear that he's spent, and maybe feeling... something else. Something he would prefer Dave didn't see. 

Dave tries not to contemplate what it might be. He doesn't want to.

“You looked gross,” he excuses, dragging his gaze away.

“Right.”

“Like that guy from Mask.”

“Sure.”

Dirk hefts himself up onto his arms, slight tremble in his bones that doesn't quite make it passed under the radar. With some stilted movements he helps ease Dave onto his feet, but he doesn't step away, not yet, so neither does Dave. There's an unspoken rule here, one that's just been established and gotten its metaphysical John Hancock; which is, no talking. No mentioning anything that shouldn't be. No even remotely speaking about what just went on. And, certainly, no pillow talk.

So of course Dirk observes Dave like he's got a second head growing out of his earhole when he reaches and cups a palm over his arm.

And even moreso after he leans up and presses the faintest kiss to Dirk's lips.

He stares at Dave with wide, searching eyes. Like he doesn't comprehend how he's supposed to react to getting macked on. Hell if Dave does. It's not like they haven't before. Except last time Dave didn't say seven kinds of degrading shit to Dirk while they fucked, after Dave made a pisspoor attempt at cutting them both off from whatever this is. 

Dirk lifts his hands once a moment has gone by, and he covers Dave's cheeks, pulling him back in to connect their lips. Simple, but full of all the notions he'd never let himself say out loud where Dave could make fun of his delicate pride.

It’s a long beat before they draw away from each other; when Dave decides he needs to take a much needed breather, like anymore oxygen is going to at all fix whatever the fresh fuck he’d broken in himself.

He knows he needs to say something, anything, can’t just settle here in the silence forever.

“We’ll save more on the water bill if we shower together,” is what his genius noggin decides to come up with. As bland as it is, he's rewarded by an amused huff from Dirk. Positive response.

He takes Dirk’s hand without thinking much of it, not that thinking has done him any good in recent years anyway; and with a shockingly placid glance from Dirk, he leads him from the kitchen to their small, grime-stained bathroom, so they can both emerge as something remotely close to as clean as they're ever going to get.


End file.
